


Posterity of Finarfin

by Elesianne



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, First Age, Gen, Inklings of angst, foresight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Finrod arrives in Dorthonion with the first snows to spend time with little Gil-galad and speak of the future with Orodreth. He does not quite manage not to bring the shadows of past and future alike with him.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Posterity of Finarfin

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place between Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle, and the completion of Nargothrond. For this fic, I've written Gil-galad as the son of Orodreth son of Angrod, and as having been born by this time. For more info about canon, see end notes.

'Come, come!' Little Gil-galad takes his hand and tugs, and of course Finrod follows. When the boy starts slipping on the ice ground in his haste and his father, walking by Finrod's side, starts looking worried, Finrod scoops Gil-galad up in his arms.

'Tell me where to go', he says, and the boy tells him eagerly, eyes shining bright. His mother did well to name him for them.

They end up at the little lake just outside the walls of Angrod and Aegnor's keep. Finrod has been here once before, swimming with Aegnor on a balmy but rainy summer's day. It tends to rain in Dorthonion.

Now it snows only lightly, and it is the easiest thing for Finrod to pretend at delighted surprise when Gil-galad points at the blades with straps that Orodreth has been carrying. An excited child is enough to hold at bay Finrod's distaste for snow and ice, and indeed it is seeing how Gil-galad has grown that made Finrod ride to the uplands with the same wind that brought the year's first snows.

'We're going skating', Gil-galad declares, and boasts of being very good at it, inquiring whether Finrod knows how to skate.

'Not well', Finrod lies to his great-nephew that he is growing as fond of as he is of his nephew. 'Will you show me how?' he asks.

Gil-galad is more than happy to, and shows all the turns and stops and the speed that he has learned, taking more than one tumble in the process. Orodreth is ready with a comforting word whenever needed, patient and indulging in his son and uncle's merriment.

Eventually Gil-galad tires himself out while the short winter day's light dies around them. When he skates straight into a snowbank and stays lying there, face half in the snow, giggling, Orodreth comes to pick him up.

'I think it is time for some warm drinks in the hall', he says with dry amusement as he detaches the blades from Gil-galad's boots. 'And perhaps a nap for the smaller skaters.'

Gil-galad protests but soon nods off when they are settled in the large chairs in front of the fire in the great hall of the keep.

Finrod sips at his warm, spiced wine and looks at the little boy dozing in his father's lap, his cheeks red and dark-golden curls messy.

'Rodnor Gil-galad, posterity of the house of wise, gentle Finarfin', Finrod says quietly to Orodreth. That last name, one that his father never spoke, one of which Finrod is still not sure Finarfin himself would approve, still feels strange on his tongue. He wonders how many more decades of the new years of the Sun it will take for it not to.

Orodreth smooths Gil-galad's messy locks with sure fingers and ever-so-content expression. Finrod tamps down a tendril of yearning and jealousy that threatens to rise within him –

(He knows that if he lets, it will bring with it dreams of another, never-existing child with golden hair in the arms of its golden-haired mother, and Finrod has neither of them, and he must not allow himself to –)

And he tries to let himself fill instead with gladness for his nephew, dear to him always, for he is glad that he found what Finrod did not know how to hold on to.

'My new stronghold will soon be finished', he says to Orodreth. 'Next summer, or autumn at the latest, said the leader of the works when I rode away.'

'Rode to here.' Orodreth smiles. 'To the place with the worst winter weather in all of Beleriand, save for Maedhros's bare hill, perhaps.'

'To my family.'

'You are always welcome here.'

'As are you in Minas Tirith, and in Nargothrond as well, as soon as it is finished. But it is Minas Tirith that I want you to come to as soon as the roads are safer to travel and your lady can let you travel without worry. I want you to decide what changes you will make.'

Orodreth raises his eyebrows in reply.

'Come now, nephew', says Finrod. 'You must know I have considered you my heir ever since – ever since it became apparent that I have need for such a thing. I intend to move to Nargothrond and rule my realm from there, and I want you to come to Minas Tirith and keep the watch on Sirion for me.'

In the firelight, Finrod watches emotions shift in Orodreth's eyes. 'Thank you for the honour, my lord', he says at length. 'I will keep it well for you. For you, and for Gil-galad should I fall while Tol Sirion is in my keeping.'

Finrod gives a nod of acknowledgement, turning the green-stoned ring on his finger. He says, 'And should I fall, you shall be the heir to all my lands if your father and uncle still hold their own.'

Orodreth looks conflicted again. 'I do not know whether to remind you that you could marry, or to thank you, or to say that I hope I will never wear your crown. For your sake, and my father's and uncle Aegnor's.'

'You need not do any of those. In any case, it has been obvious if not official for years. There will be no other heir, no matter what you or others might say – indeed, your father reminded me of the same when I talked with him of this many winters ago – nor do you need to thank me. Who knows, perhaps your inheritance will be a thankless one in the end.'

After a moment of staring into the fire, patting Gil-galad's back with gentle hands, Orodreth says, 'Let us not think of such dark possibilities on this day; it is a distant prospect after all. Let us instead decide what we will do tomorrow. No doubt Gil-galad will want to spend it with his great-uncle Finrod. Just your presence is a great gift to him at this age.'

'And his to me.' Finrod grins. 'Aegnor mentioned yesterday that some young warriors of his have made a hill perfect for sledding down. That sounds like something that your brave lad would enjoy.'

'They have indeed, one that is far too steep for children! But Aegnor and his men will be happy to see you make a fool of yourself tumbling down that hill as soon as they return from their patrol.'

'Then I shall have to see whether I have time for that in between my plans with Gil-galad. How is he with his wooden sword these days? Ready to spar with his great-uncle?'

Orodreth grins, a proud father. 'Willing to spar, certainly. Able to do it without falling over in his enthusiasm? Not so certainly.'

'I dare say we will cope.' Finrod smiles, wistful but not too sad, for it has been a glad day. He is always glad of days with his family. He says, 'It feels like it has been three blinks of an eye since I was sparring with you with wooden swords.'

'Yet it was in another world.'

'Indeed. And we hardly knew what we were doing.' They had been untested by battle, unbloodied, not even knowing what battle they were preparing for, only that they should. They – the adults of the family – had forged swords and had just about learned to wield them when they made wooden ones to start teaching the children.

All out of nebulous fears that they'd wished wouldn't realise; but somewhere deep in those places where foresight lives, quiet but for its rare unbidden words, Finrod and his father and sister had known that the swords would be wielded on fields of battle, not only in training matches within the high walls of lush gardens.

He is wondering whether he should explain some of this to Orodreth – why they ended his childhood with their formless fears; somehow there has never been time before, but now they have had decades of relative peace, the hurry of building defences and watchtowers eventually giving space for reflection – when the great doors of the hall open and in pours a flurry of snow, and Orodreth's lady Faeleth.

Orodreth's face lights up at the sight of his wife.

'Will you hold him?' he asks, handing Finrod his still-slumbering son without waiting for reply.

He hurries to his wife, making a fuss over her. Finrod turns away from looking at him take off her snowy cloak, feeling as if he is intruding on something private in the middle of the great hall bustling with people.

As Orodreth lingers with Faeleth, Finrod stands up and stands as close to the fire as he dares with Gil-galad in his arms.

'May you never be king', Finrod says quietly to the sleeping child, small and dear. 'May you not become another link in a chain of broken kings, for that is what you would have to be. May you never wear my crown.'

**Author's Note:**

>  _Notes on canon:_  
>  Tolkien does not indicate when this version of Gil-galad, the final one that he conceived of but didn’t have time to consolidate into much of his writings, was born.
> 
> The canon about him is in _The Peoples of Middle-Earth (HoME 12)_ , pages 350-351 in my copy. His mother is left unnamed – she is only described as ‘a Sindarin lady of the North’ – so I gave her the name Faeleth.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I enjoyed writing about Finrod again. I always appreciate kudos and comments, and you can also come say hello [on Tumblr](https://elesianne.tumblr.com/).


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